And youle confes it when you reade that letter.
You knowe the charackter & the whole scope
Ere you peruse one worde, I make no questyon.
But reade it, doe, that whyle you seeme to reede
You may make readye for another worlde.
Why doe you studye? flatter not your selfe
With hope of an excusse.

_Gab_. You are not madd!

_Gan_. Yes, foorsoothe,
I will confes my selfe emptye of sence,
Dealinge with suche a wyttie sparke as you.
Theres no comparysson: a sparke, sayd I?
I meant a bonefyer made of wytt & lust;
One nourryshes another. Have you doone?
Does any thynge you reade allay your coldnes.

_Gab_. You thynke thys letter myne?

_Gan_. I doe indeede,
And will with horror to thy wanton thoughts
Make thee confes it, that thy soule beinge easd
May fly away the sooner.

_Gab_. What you--

_Gan_. Fond woman, doe not trust me, there is deathe
And undyssembld ruyne in my words.
Make your prayrs quycklye.